Rules Be Damned
by RookieGinge
Summary: Andy/Sam fic. Rated T to be safe, and for later. / In the aftermath of Benny's death, Andy's left with guilt that threatens to consume her. Can Sam help her? And when it turns into something more, do the rules manage to stop them in their tracks?
1. Thank You

**Disclaimer:** As awesome as it would be ;) ... Rookie Blue does not belong to me in any way, shape, or form.

**A/N:** Drum roll, please! My first ever multichapter fic!

Woohoo! I can't believe it! I'm so happy right now, haha; I'm positively giddy.

This is an Andy/Sam story, set after episode 6, 'Bullet Proof', because it left so much opportunity for writing!

I'm breaking an old promise to myself, saying that I wouldn't post a fic without being done it. Oh well ... But the next chapter is done, the rest of it planned out. It will total 4 or 5 chapters, in the end.

I'll try to get it all up before Thursday night, when the new episode airs!

I sincerely hope you enjoy!

_-0-0-_

"Thanks," Andy tells him, quietly and genuinely, as he walks her up to her apartment. "You know, for helping out Benny's mom like that."

"No problem," Sam replies with a small smile. "She's a nice woman."

Andy nods, trying to return his smile but looking away when she only manages a pained grimace. "She raised a good son." And there it is; the elephant in the room, out in the open. She's opening up the floor for conversation, and it's his for the taking.

As much as she doesn't want to ever have to think about it again, she feels like she _needs_ to talk about it. She feels like she owes it to Benny.

"Got to know him well, huh?" Sam asks her, attempting to keep his voice nonchalant but not quite succeeding at hiding his blatant curiosity.

Andy nods again, her eyes flashing dangerously as she prepares to go on the defensive. (It comes off more offensive, though.) She stares him dead on, saying, "You gonna tell me that that was a rookie mistake; to get personally involved in a case? Because if you are, you can save it, Sam, okay? It won't do any good now. And it probably wouldn't have done any good if you'd told me this morning, either. So just … save it."

Sam raises his hands, defensively. "I wasn't going to say that, I swear," he tells her quietly and calmly, in an attempt to diffuse the escalated situation. She hates that he's using his hostage-negotiation voice with her; as if she's some broken fuse, capable of blowing up at any moment. Nevertheless, she takes a deep breath and makes a conscious effort to cool herself off.

"Sorry," she mutters, moving her gaze to observe the contrast of her shoes against the carpeted hallways of her building. Shifting so as to lean against the wall, she sighs before continuing softly, "Yeah, I got to know him."

Sam nods, shifting and leaning up against the wall as well, looking down at her but not forcing eye contact. "Tell me about him."

This time, she manages a small smile. "He's … I don't even know, really." She shakes her head, searching for the right words to express what she needs to say. "At first, he was kind of immature; joking around, you know? I didn't take him very seriously. But there was more there, underneath … he read me like an open book, just about a half hour after he first saw me."

"_You have a hard time trusting people, don't you?"_

"He was … complicated. Full of layers." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "Just like everybody is, I guess," she finally adds.

Sam nods, pursing his lips a little bit. "Yeah, people tend to be like that. You think you know someone, inside and out … yet they still manage to constantly surprise you."

They're silent for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.

With a small sigh, she pushes off from the wall and takes a backwards step towards her door. "Do you want to come in for a little bit? Have a drink?" she asks him softly, looking up at him and easily getting lost in his eyes.

She tells herself that she's just being polite; that her invitation doesn't mean anything special. But if she were to be honest with herself, she'd have to admit that perhaps it could come to mean so much more.

Sam hesitates, thinking back on what Oliver had been so close to saying earlier in the night; and the man was right.

As much as he wants to go in for a drink and the opportunity to get her to open up more to him, he knows it would lead to other things … and as much as he wants to (and God, does he want to!), he just can't. He can't put her in that kind of position.

He can see on her face that she's thinking along the same lines as him. He just gives her a small smile, saying, "Wish I could, but I should really jet." She nods understandingly, giving him a rueful smile.

"Yeah," she sighs knowingly, trying to shove down her disappointment.

He clears his throat and looks away, because the look in her eyes is making it harder and harder for him to walk away from her and her invitation by the second. And maybe he's only torturing himself, but he can't seem to resist stepping closer and lightly pressing his lips to her forehead, reveling in her scent. "You gonna be okay?" he asks her, face still just inches from her face. His voice is quiet, and his breath invades her senses in a way that she can't say she minds.

She swallows thickly, nodding quickly before managing (with a lot of determination) to respond moments later. "Yeah, I'll be alright.

He nods in return, brushing her hair back and letting his hand linger for a moment before stepping away. He has to get away soon, before he's unable to escape. He just has to make one thing clear first. "You need anything – anything at all – and you come to me, alright?" he tells her seriously. _Rules be damned_, he leaves unsaid; but he thinks she understands it anyways.

She smiles up at him gratefully. "Thanks," she says.

He just nods, returning her smile.

Then, desperately fighting the strong urge he has to follow her into her apartment and do things he might possibly regret afterwards (though he highly doubts he would), he stuffs his hands into his pockets and turns around, walking out of her building.

It kills him more than he'd admit to leave her behind.

_-0-0-_

Until next time! (Haha, I love being able to say that.)

Pretty please leave a review? It would mean so much!


	2. Nightmares

**Disclaimer:** Standard disclaimer applies: not mine.

**A/N:** Chapter 2!

Thanks to everyone to review'd/alert'd/fav'd! I hope you continue to enjoy!

And yeah, the chapters aren't too long ... but that's just the way it's going to be ;).

_-0-0-_

She closes her apartment door behind her after watching Sam walk to the end of the hallway. She locks the deadbolt and slides the chain across, pausing as she does the latter.

The deadbolt is understandable, even in a 'safe' apartment building; after all, she does live in downtown Toronto. But the chain's a little overkill, and she knows it. She doesn't think she's ever used it before … now, though, she can still hear the machine gun firing at her and feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She can still feel the fear that had planted itself in her gut as she called in for back-up.

She finishes sliding the chain across, deciding that tonight she doesn't care if it is a tad ridiculous. It makes her feel safer; and if it can somehow manage to give her even a single moment of uninterrupted sleep tonight, it's worth it in the long run.

She sighs, leaning back against the door and sinking to the ground. Even just thinking about sleep has her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She's almost certain she's not going to get much of it. No chance, no way … not with the images her imagination has conjured up for her: Benny's eyes staring up at her, unseeing; his face angry as he yells at her, blaming her for his extremely premature death; him being dragged into surgery against his will. None of its real, of course … but it still has her gut viciously rolling with guilt.

She swallows thickly, blinking away the unwanted images from where they're trying to burn themselves into her retina.

If she didn't have to work tomorrow, she'd brew a strong pot of coffee and keep herself awake all night until she finally passed out from utter exhaustion into a dreamless sleep. (She'd try sleeping pills, but she can just picture her father popping them before passing out on the floor under his coffee table, and that idea instantly flies right out the window.) As it is, though, she _does_ have to work. So she'll valiantly push on through a nightmare-riddled sleep, attempting to get an hour or two of actual rest before getting back up and suffering through a day feeling like a walking zombie (and no doubt looking like one, too). She can only hope that Boyko has the sense to not send her out on the street once he sees her condition.

After who knows how long of sitting and staring and thinking (of both everything, and nothing at all, really), she pushes herself up off of the floor and slowly makes her way to her bathroom.

Staring into the mirror, she observes herself. She thinks she looks older. Which she knows is physically impossible, after one day. But she certainly _feels_ older, and is no doubt psychologically transferring the feeling to her own image of herself, regardless of what her eyes are actually seeing.

She stares at her own face for so long that her eyes (and other features) start to look crooked and unbalanced. She blinks, splashes cold water on her face and neck, and brushes her teeth. She avoids gazing into the mirror now, tying her hair up in a ponytail at the crook of her neck.

When she walks out into her bedroom, she stands still for a long while. (That's becoming a theme now; standing/sitting and staring. She'd probably be concerned if she didn't have more important matters pressing on and around her brain … but as it is, it's the least of her worries.)

She's absolutely exhausted, and her pillow beckons to her ever so sweetly, her comforter looking warm and comfortable. How she wishes she could lie down, close her eyes, and get some rest; how she longs for it. But she knows that when she closes her eyes, she'll be able to see nothing but Benny.

And she isn't ready for that. She isn't ready to have her eyes burn with the image of a boy that shouldn't have had to die today; (or anytime in the near future). He shouldn't have had to be in the parking garage that night in the first place. And he shouldn't have survived a bullet to the head only to slip away from the world forever during the removal surgery. He shouldn't have had to die because – to some people – he was nothing more evidence.

A conviction shouldn't be worth a human life. Not ever.

Both gratefully and reluctantly at the same time, she crawls into bed, settling down under the covers and resting her head on her fluffy pillow.

_Come on, McNally_, she urges herself as she stares up at her bland ceiling. _Just close your eyes already!_

Somehow, miraculously, she does … if only because there's an over-powering voice in the back of her head telling her that she doesn't deserve to be avoiding the unwanted images plaguing her mind. She owes it to Benny to feel the guilt instead of hiding from it.

She falls asleep almost instantly (as she'd suspected she would), tossing and turning just moments afterwards as her mind plays the footage of him being wheeled into the delivery room over … and over … and over again.

When she wakes up the first time in a cold sweat, her breathing heavy and unsteady, with the sudden urge to vomit repeatedly, she knows it's going to take a lot of determination and willpower to make it through the night.

_-0-0-_

**A/N(2):** What did you think? Up next: Sam after he departed from Andy's apartment building!

Please review!


	3. Rock & A Hard Place

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine, unfortunately.

**A/N:** Chapter 3, here we go!

Sam's up, and it was extremely hard to write, I must say. It's 1:30 in the morning I've been trying to write this for four hours now, and I'm exhausted. (I also skipped out on my glee drabbles tonight, which I feel awful for.) But I've done it! So hooray!

Thanks to everyone who has alert'd this or fav'd it, I'm so glad you guys like! And to those who have review'd ... you are amazing. I couldn't do this without you :). Cheesy, I know, but so true!

Hope you enjoy!

_-0-0-_

He knows it's the right thing … walking away. The knowledge does nothing, however, to distinguish the part of him wishing that he had stayed; that he _could_ have stayed.

He sighs while exiting her building, pressing down on the 'unlock' button of his truck remote and hearing it _beep_ in reply as he crosses the street.

_Stop thinking about it, Sam_, he berates himself. _She's your rookie, you couldn't have gone in. It's against the rules._ It's the truth … but – just like the knowledge that walking away was the 'right' thing to do – it doesn't mean a thing in his heart of hearts. Deep down, a part of him still wishes he was inside her apartment right now.

Walking around the back to the driver's side of his vehicle, his eyes stray and catch sight of something they'd failed to notice earlier.

A bullet hole.

Two bullet holes, actually; as well as a couple more grazes that hadn't managed to penetrate the shining metal.

A part of his brain is stuck on the thought: _My truck. What the hell happened to my truck?_, while another part of his brain has already started moving ahead at full speed, trying to dismiss the damage itself and his initial rage.

Then, suddenly, his mind freezes on another thought:

_The bullets that caused these holes were aimed at Andy._

And he doesn't know why, or how, but this thought takes precedence over his truck. His beloved truck, his baby; and all of a sudden, it doesn't even matter anymore.

It's a sign … that he's in too deep … and a cue; his cue to get in stance and prepare to run for the hills, away from anything and everything that has somehow gained the power of influence over his emotions. It should frighten him, and instill caution in his veins.

Most importantly, though, he should be livid about his truck.

Instead, there's a stray voice in the back of his mind saying, _Better the truck than McNally, any day._ And it's honestly how he feels. He can't bring himself to begrudge her the damage in the slightest; because any one of those bullets could have had her lying on an autopsy table, chest cut open with a non-beating heart exposed.

The thought alone makes his nostrils flare and his stomach churn uncomfortably, so he looks away from his scraped and hole-riddled bumper, forcefully clearing his mind of the unwanted images it caused.

Reassuring himself that Andy is inside her apartment approximately a hundred yards away (her heart beating steadily and her lungs filling methodically with oxygen every few seconds or so) he climbs into his truck and points it towards him home.

He realizes, rather belatedly, as he closes and locks the door behind him, that the fact that he doesn't remember driving home is most likely a bad thing. Actually, with all the thoughts crawling around his brain, consuming and distracting him, it's a wonder he didn't kill anybody.

_Don't think about death now, Sam_, he warns himself, _because now is _not_ a good time._

But it's too late. Because now the image of Andy, dead, is plastered to the back of his eyelids and he can't seem to be rid of it. (He also can't seem to last very long without blinking, which he vainly attempts to do several times; anything to avoid seeing her like that again.)

Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes and his '5 o'clock shadow' (which bypassed 5 o'clock a while back and now matches the clock on his microwave reading 12:06 in the a.m.), he just barely suppresses a yawn whilst cursing the image of Andy that appears every time he closes his eyes.

He also curses himself; because he's supposed to teach her what she needs to learn, protect her in situations that she hasn't been prepared for yet – he thinks there's a possibility that it might actually be in the official job description as a training officer to make sure she, the rookie, doesn't somehow end up dead … because she's his rookie, and he's supposed to care about whether or not she dies.

But he's not supposed to care this much.

Sighing quietly and begrudgingly accepting his inevitable fate of envisioning images of a dead Andy whenever his eyes close, he drops his keys on the closest flat surface and slowly urges his feet forward in the direction of his bedroom. Slipping off his shirt and stripping down to his boxers, he collapses onto his bed. He wriggles around and maneuvers himself until he's managed (with the skill that only comes from plenty of practice) to position himself under the covers and rest the left side of his head on his pillow.

(Just because he's accepted his fate doesn't mean he has to like it … which is why – when he sees her blank, lifeless eyes staring up at him from within a large puddle of her lifeblood – he groans loudly and lifts his eyelids as quickly as he can.)

He curses himself once again, and he curses her.

She's not supposed to affect him this way, or be on his mind this much. She shouldn't be able to evoke the emotions that she's already managed to without even trying.

And he isn't even frickin' _allowed_ to act on these feelings. So now, he's stuck denying (to the world, to her, to himself) emotions that he hasn't felt for anyone in a long time, and pretending that she hasn't managed to ever-so-deftly crawl underneath his skin and make herself at home there without even realizing what she's done.

He wants to be angry at her, for making him feel.

But he's mostly just frustrated that he's stuck between a rock and a hard place (and by the way, who came up with that dumb expression, anyways?) with seemingly no way out of it.

-0-0-

An hour later, after many more close calls with dead Andys (and wow, he never knew his imagination was quite that creative, especially with death scenarios), he hears a strange ringing sound from the other end of his apartment.

Groaning, he realizes that someone wants to be buzzed in. Looking blearily at the alarm clock to the right of his head, he wonders – irritated – who the hell is calling on him at one in the morning.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," he mumbles to himself as the ringing sound comes once again. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Scrubbing a hand over his still unshaven jaw, he stands and pulls on a pair of sweatpants.

When he reaches the old box-like buzzer system outlet beside his door, he presses the intercom agitatedly and snaps, "What?"

For a moment, there's only silence on the other end – sounding a lot like dead air (except for the breathing) – before a very familiar voice pipes up in response.

"You said I could come to you, right?" He can hear Andy swallow thickly before she continues, "If I ever needed anything."

Her voice is meek and quiet, relaying an uncertainty that seems almost unfitting given what she says.

He stands still for a moment, hand frozen on the intercom button, trying to think of a response. _Yeah, I did, but I didn't exactly have this in mind when I said it_, seems rude, and would poorly reflect his mindset. (He doesn't want to push her away; he meant it when he'd told her to come to him, even if he hadn't said 'anytime'. And maybe the possibility of late night – or early morning – visits hadn't crossed his mind … but she's here now already, isn't she?) _Oh, I'm so glad you're here_, also seems unfitting, despite the truth to the words.

After perhaps a few moments too long of debate, he lets go of the intercom button, deciding against responding at all.

Instead, he just presses the button to let her in.

_-0-0-_

**A/N(2):** Sorry, me again ;). Just to let you know, I may not finish this before the new episode. It all depends on whether or not I am going to Canada's Wonderland tomorrow (or should I say today). And if I do go to Wonderland, I'll miss the new ep myself, so I'll get this done before _I_ watch it, at least, to keep it all based after 'Bullet Proof' and influenced by nothing new.

Please review! (Especially if you have already alert'd or fav'd and haven't reviewed.) It would mean so much!


	4. Lines Crossed

**Disclaimer:** Belongs to ABC, not me.

**A/N:** Chapter 4, coming atcha!

This was really hard to write. But wow, it's over 2000 words. I'm very proud of myself :).

We are almost at the end here! If it goes according to plan, the next - and last - chapter will be fairly short. Certainly not as long as this one! Just enough to close things off after ... well, you'll see how this chappie end ;).

Thanks everyone who had read/fav'd/alert'd and especially review'd, you rock!

Hope you enjoy!

_-0-0-_

She shouldn't be here. She's not even sure that she _wants_ to be here.

But, for a dead person, Benny's proving quite hard to be rid of. She's worn out, upset, and feeling guilty all at once; the concoction of emotions is proving to be very trying, and she knows that if she has to see Benny's unseeing eyes one more time, she just might crack.

So after waking up for the fourth or fifth time, she decided she couldn't deal with sleep any longer; so she slipped on sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie before leaving her apartment and her bed behind her. And now, here she is; standing on her TO's doorstep, ringing the buzzer, at one in the morning.

She regrets it almost as soon as she does. It's late, and she's probably just bothering him.

_He did say that if I needed anything …_

_Yeah, but do you really want him to see you like this?_

_Well, I guess it's too late now, isn't it?_

She presses the buzzer again impulsively to spite the other voice in her head, and then groans. Because if he hadn't been coming to the door before, he definitely is now; and it would be so much easier if she didn't have to decide whether to leave or stay … so much easier if he decided for her by not letting her in.

She debates walking away, going back home, and pretending she had never been here. Part of her just wants to make a break for it. But another part of her is holding her in place where she is, not letting her leave.

Suddenly, a rough, sleep-filled (yet still clearly recognizable) voice snaps through the intercom; "What?"

Now, she really wants to leave. He's obviously agitated at being woken up; she should just go and leave him to his rest. But the same part of her that won't let her leave seems to have gained control of her speech as well.

"You said I could come to you, right?" she says, much more meekly than she's proud of, swallowing thickly. "If I ever needed anything," she continues.

She holds still, barely allowing herself to breathe while she waits for a response. It doesn't come. She waits, and waits … and still it doesn't come. Even the part of her that earlier refused to leave seems to be giving up. She's only just managed to take the first step away from his building when she hears a loud buzzing noise.

On a whim, she reaches for the door handle.

And it's unlocked.

-0-0-

She closes her eyes, squeezing them tightly before apprehensively knocking. She doesn't know _why_ she's apprehensive; or at least, any more apprehensive than she was downstairs. It's basically like she's already knocked. He already knows she's here, and he's already let her in.

What's there to be apprehensive of now?

_I don't know_, she thinks to herself darkly, _seeing him, having him see me like this; having to talk about everything …_

Before she can think of anything else, the door's swinging open and there he is, in all of his shirtless glory.

She tries to be discreet about her quick once over (she's painfully aware of how low his sweatpants are slung on his hips), but she doesn't think she succeeds. He's busy yawning as she does it, though, so crisis averted.

Then she feels his gaze sweeping over her. She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks as his eyes skim over her baggy clothing and come to land on her face.

"How terrible do I look?" she asks him, grimacing. Reaching a hand up to feel her hair, she regrets not looking in a mirror before leaving her apartment. (She doesn't want to have to look into her own eyes right now, though.) She moves a few clumps of hair that she can feel are out of place, but gives up on the rest. And she can only guess at how awful her face looks.

Red-rimmed eyes, dark circles underneath them, possible tear-tracks. Ugh. She can't believe she showed up like this.

She makes a half-attempt to wipe her face, but knows it can't be of much good. "Seriously, how bad?" she asks, brushing her hair back before giving up the futile attempt.

Sam blinks, seemingly only just hearing her, and says, "Don't worry about it, you look fine."

She snorts quietly, murmuring, "Yeah, right," but she doesn't push it any further.

She awkwardly looks to the side, seeing the door frame and realizing that she's still in the entranceway. Sam follows her gaze, realizing it as well.

"Um, come in," he says, taking a step back and opening the door a little wider. "Sorry."

She gives him a small smile as she takes a step in, saying, "Don't worry about it. I'm the one who showed up in the middle of the night, after all."

_His apartment's nice_, she thinks absently as he shows her to into a sort of half living-room, half dining-room. _Nice, but a little impersonal_, she adds on in her head. The walls are a beige-y, creamy color that just screams: _staged_. There aren't any pictures on the wall, and the dining-room table looks unused (not to mention fresh out of an IKEA catalogue). The TV is a large flat-screen mounted to the wall. It might be the most personal thing in the apartment (as far as she can see, anyways); except, perhaps, the couch.

It looks older. Not ratty or in need of a one-way ticket to the dump; but it looks … _lived_ in. That's exactly it; the rest of the place looks like a set up at a furniture store. Even the TV looks like a prop … everything except the couch.

"Take a seat," Sam says, gesturing to the very object of her evaluation. "You wanna drink?"

"Uh," she starts unintelligently, "just water would be great, please."

He nods, turning around and walking into what must be the kitchen. She sits down, letting out a large breath. _What on _earth_ am I doing here?_ she wonders to herself.

_That doesn't matter much anymore, does it?_ another voice in her head retorts. _You're here now, no matter why._

_True that_, she thinks, _but what am I supposed to say to Sam? He's probably going to ask, and _I_ don't even know._

_Yeah, well … you're on your own there._

She sighs, looking around again and giving up on the conversation in her head. Even one side of her own self-conscious is jumping ship and abandoning her in this rocky predicament.

"One water," says Sam, startling her; he's much closer than he should have been able to get without her noticing. As he says it, he takes a seat beside her on the couch, passing her a bottle of water. She obviously missed his footsteps as he approached.

"Thank you," she says gratefully, twisting the lid and taking a fair sized gulp of water.

"Thirsty?" he asks with a small smile, sipping some coffee out of a large, blue mug.

She blushes, nodding. She hasn't eaten or drank anything since … oh, probably lunch. Or even before then; she doesn't really remember. She didn't realize how thirsty she was until the water was in her hands, though.

So …" Sam starts awkwardly after a few minutes of almost-comfortable silence. (Except that she was just waiting for the conversation to start, and he was still very shirtless – something she was very aware of.) She removes the bottle from her lips, swallowing some water before looking up at him, waiting for the question she knew would be coming eventually. He doesn't say anything, however; just quirks an eyebrow at her as he takes another sip of coffee. He might as well as said the words, however, because she hears them loud and clear.

"I couldn't sleep," she confesses quietly, playing with one of the long drawstrings on her sweatpants. She sees him nod slightly out of the corner of her eye. He doesn't say anything, and after a moment she continues, the words coming more insistently. "I just … every time I close my eyes, I see him. I see Benny. And it's never exactly the same, but he's always dead. And it's always all my fault."

A lone tear makes it way down her cheek, pausing at the bottom before falling through the air and landing on the back of her hand. She absently wipes at away from her hand, not bothering with her cheek.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, anything, after her confession of blaming herself, but she continues, "I got sick of tired of waking up and falling back to sleep, only for a repeat performance of something I never wanted to see in the first place. And I remembered you saying that I could come to you, if I needed anything, and I just … I needed it to stop. I needed the images to go away."

There's silence for a few moments as her words hang in the air. She continues to fiddle with the drawstring (any to keep her hands busy) until he replies.

"It's not your fault, Andy," Sam says quietly. She opens her mouth to argue, but he continues before she can. "And I know you don't believe me; I know you're going to keep blaming yourself. But one day, you're going to have to get over it and accept that not everyone can be saved. It doesn't make it your fault; it just makes it suck."

She mulls over his words in silence. They almost remind her of Luke's, in way; but … not. Maybe he's right … maybe she will get over it. But for right now, she can't let go of the guilt that has her heart in a vicious choke hold. He seems to understand, though, and doesn't say anymore about it.

"Is there anything else?" he asks her quietly, and she looks at him with her brows furrowed. "That you need," he clarifies, sensing her confusion, "other than getting it all to stop?"

She's about to shake her head, but stops herself as something occurs to her. She takes a deep breath before shifting her gaze and establishing eye contact, quietly asking him, "Do you think I'm ever going to get used to this? Luke said that I have to, in this job. But I don't think I ever want to see people as evidence."

He's quiet for a moment, contemplating how to answer. "I think you're talking about two different things here. Because, yeah, I know that eventually death will be old news to you. It happens; and we're the ones who have to see it every day." Andy's heart sinks with his words before he continues. "But I think that once a cop stops caring about the people, they stop doing their job. Because maybe Callaghan still catches the bad guys in the end, but he's forgotten why it was ever important in the first place. And if we're not doing it for the people, then why do it, right?"

Andy lets his words sink in before turning back to him. "Yeah, right," she agrees quietly before switching gears. "Are you going to answer my question properly now?" she asks him a little cheekily, despite the weight of their conversation.

He smirks, shaking his lightly at her as he looks into her eyes. She thinks it means that no, he's not going to answer her question … but he does. "I think that the fact that you care about the people is what makes you a good cop; and I'll think you'll be a great one once you lose the shiny, rookie newness."

_Even now_, she thinks to herself silently, mentally shaking her head,_ he teases me._

"And I think it will _continue_ to make you a great cop," he adds, with a small smile.

She manages a light smile in return, (slightly) bolstered by the knowledge that people can _remain_ people, simple as that. Her smile lessens a bit, though, when she thinks back on the nightmares that are sure to continue plaguing her for the rest of the foreseeable future. "Luke's sure to get more sleep, though," she mutters darkly, once again staring at her shoes, and he sees straight through to her fear.

"Maybe," he tells her, keeping his tone as light as he can. "But if you weigh it out: having a heart versus having a good night's sleep … I think we got the better end of the deal."

"You may have a point there," she concedes, privately pleased by his inclusion of himself in the 'heart' category. She likes that he doesn't see Benny as evidence, either.

"May?" he teases, scooting a bit closer to her on the couch and quirking an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, well sorry." She rolls her eyes at him, saying sarcastically, "Sam, you're so right, just like always!"

He chuckles at her flat – obviously fake – tone, lightly ruffling her already mussed hair. "Damn straight," he proclaims confidently, winking at her.

She chuckles lightly, looking up into his brown eyes only to get immediately lost within them.

She notices his pupils dilate ever-so-slightly as her heartbeat quickens a minor fraction.

He leans in closer, and she closes her eyes just milliseconds before he presses his lips to hers.

_-0-0-_

Pretty please review?


	5. Shouldn't

**_Disclaimer:_**_ If I owned it, I wouldn't be anxiously awaiting tonight's episode, would I? I'd have already seen it! ;)_

_**A/N: **Sorry this took me so long! I had a day or two where everything I wrote displeased me, and then I couldn't seem to make this turn out the way I wanted it to._

_But it's up now! I hope you enjoy!_

_-0-0-_

His lips are soft yet rough as he presses them against hers.

Within a matter of seconds, she's returning the pressure and moving her hands to rest on his bare shoulder blades, pulling him closer. His fingers entwine themselves in her hair, and suddenly it doesn't matter that she forgot to brush it.

Her mind's a little preoccupied – what with the kissing and his current state of undress – but through the haze of confusing emotions swirling around her brain, and the sensations littering her skin as his hands move from her hair and work their way down her body to come to rest on her hips, an important thought manages to make itself known.

Her brain slowly registers and comprehends what the voice within it is insisting; and once it does, the initial euphoria of the kiss begins to fade. It's a struggle to get her lips back under control and away from his (as much as she really doesn't want to), but she manages to pull back and take a deep breath.

But this is more than just oxygen deprivation making its self known, and Sam can tell.

"What are we doing?" Andy asks him quietly, unsurely, not quite able to meet his gaze.

"Well, up until a few seconds ago, we were kissing," he teases her with a slight smirk on his face, deciding to go for a bit of levity before the conversation starts to turn more serious. She shakes her head lightly, and he's suddenly very aware of the position they're still in; her hands lightly gripping his shoulder blades, his hands resting on her slim waist.

"Not what I meant," she tells him seriously, "and you know it."

He sighs almost inaudibly. He _does_ know it; he knows that this situation is way more complicated than it might appear at first glance.

Relationships between coworkers are almost always frowned upon. In any workplace, in can cause disorder and serious complications … but on the force? Those 'complications' can be life-threatening and fatal if a cop allow their emotions to rule out over their instincts and common sense. No relationship on the force is looked at with approval.

Ones between rookies and their TOs, however, are completely forbidden. They usually result in a serious reprimand or demotion, if not flat out termination.

"We can't do this," she tells him quietly. "It's against the rules; we could get fired." Her hands remain where they are, however, as if she's only waiting for a reason to continue. She's seriously conflicted … but she knows that she doesn't want this to end.

"Yeah?" he asks her quietly, pressing his forehead against hers and drawing her in for a sweet, long kiss. "I guess we'll just have to keep it a secret, then, won't we?"

His lips attach themselves to hers once again, more insistent than before. She instinctively returns the pressure, getting lost in the sensations he's causing within her. When oxygen becomes a necessity, they part reluctantly and he rests his forehead against hers once again.

"I guess we will," she says breathily, responding to his earlier words.

There's still a voice in the back of her head, as he grins and moves them so that she's straddling his hips, that's telling her that this is wrong. That it's too big of a risk to take, and that she's making a mistake. But, as he firmly takes hold of her hips and hoists them both off of the couch in the direction of his bedroom, she finds that she really doesn't care.

And it certainly doesn't _feel_ like a mistake; to be doing this now, with him … It actually feels pretty right.

She doesn't know what tomorrow will bring. What she does know, is that here, right now, she wants him.

No matter what the rules against it are.

_-0-0-_

_The end._

_I can't believe it's over; my first completed multi-chapter fic :)!_

_I hoped you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it._

_Leave a review; make a smile!_


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